


lucky streak

by foxlives



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:27:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3822019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxlives/pseuds/foxlives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian wants to explain to him how obvious he is, how even his breathing patterns are knowable and how Ian's taken the time, he's learned everything he can. How Mickey comes easy to him, how Ian's become an expert and he didn't even have to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lucky streak

Ian's running as fast as he can, chest opening up and legs flying, that exact moment when the adrenaline high crashes over him. Mickey's saying, "Fuck, man, fuck" from a satisfying three or four paces behind him and Ian hitches his step, starts jogging backwards.

"You want me to slow down?" Ian shouts over the rushing in his own ears, over his own grin and the look on Mickey's face. Mickey's eyebrows are up and his mouth half-open, and before Ian can really do anything with that Mickey's put on a burst of speed, catching Ian by his t-shirt and off his guard. 

Ian says, "Shit, fuck," and stagger-steps to keep from falling. "Motherfuck—" he starts and Mickey's grinning at him this time, dragging him along until Ian pulls far enough away to grab at him in return. 

He's got leverage now and uses it to push Mickey back toward the brick wall, the wrong side of whatever building this is, shops or studios or apartments worth three times both their houses combined. He doesn't give a shit, the way Mickey looks at him as his back slams up against the brick enough to fill his whole head. Mickey's eyes go wider and his breath hitches, his mouth falling open, an invitation Ian can't risk taking him up on.

Mickey says, "The fuck do you think you're doin, tough guy?" and Ian says, "The fuck does it look like I'm doin, huh?"

Ian braces his hands on either side of Mickey's head, palms on the rough brick and fingers curling against the grooves of powdery mortar. Mickey looks up at him, something he's started having to do since he got back this time.

"Jesus, man," Mickey says, eyes flicking to the side.

Ian pushes his leg between Mickey's and Mickey groans, head falling back against the wall and his eyes fluttering shut.

"You want me to stop?" Ian asks, close enough he knows Mickey can feel his breath on his jaw, close enough to smell sweat and cigarettes and the cheap beer Mickey must've been drinking.

"Fuck you," Mickey says, eyes still closed, breathing quick.

"Actually. . ." Ian says, still close enough to feel the heat off Mickey's skin, grinning when Mickey shoves at him, saying, "Such a fuckin dick" with no kind of conviction.

"Yeah, yeah," he says. Ian goes for his fly and that shuts him up, at least for a little while.

After, Mickey lights a cigarette, head bent down and then jerked up again in a cloud of smoke. He leans back against the wall, glancing toward Ian like he's waiting for something, or like it's a dare. Smoke curls out of his nose and he takes another drag, careless, and hands it to Ian.

Ian sticks it between his teeth while he does up his jeans. His knees still feel unsteady, his head light and unstable, and he thinks how it's probably criminal, the things Mickey can do to him. Nicotine won't help this, knees weak and head racing, but it pulls him back to earth, to the gritty concrete and the dry cracked mud. There's a look Mickey gets on his face when they're fucking that Ian can't get out of his head; just thinking about the way Mickey'd dropped to his knees in front of Ian in the middle of the alley, that look on his face when he'd glanced up with his fingers fumbling open the button of Ian's jeans, is nearly enough to get Ian hard again right then and there.

Mickey's still leaning back against the wall, flicking his lighter on and off and watching that tiny lick of flame instead of Ian. It used to take him a while to be able to look Ian in the eye again after, and Ian hopes that isn't happening again. He wonders if maybe he shouldn't have pushed, that Mickey's belated freak-out over what could've happened was inevitable and that Ian should've known.

But then Mickey's slipping the lighter back in his pocket, snagging the cigarette back from Ian's mouth and saying, "C'mon, man." They walk away from the street where Mickey beat up Ned, still instinctively fleeing even now they're walking easy and slow. It's evening by now, thick slanted sunlight coming down in stripes between buildings. Their shadows are greater than they are, lying angled at their feet.

Neither of them have enough on them to pay the L fare home, so when they get to the station they clamber up the piss-smelling stairs and don't stop, dashing forward to jump the turnstiles before anyone can catch them. They're easily made, a shout and someone yelling "Hey—!" and Ian knows with certainty that without stupid luck and a train waiting at the platform they wouldn't have made it. Mickey's flipping the bird out the closing car doors and Ian tries to contain himself, hiding his grin behind his hand.

They sit next to each other and slump down in the seats, sprawl their legs out. Their knees knock together with the swaying of the train but Mickey doesn't even balk, just sticks an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth and fucks with the half-healed cuts and rising bruises scattered over his knuckles. Ian lets himself relax, slowly. 

He watches out the window, looking down the cross-streets, over the asphalt stripes and the rooftops stained gold from the slanting summer sun. He thinks this is the best he's felt in a while.

 

 

 

Ian wakes up the next morning in a hotel bed, sheets blinding white. with his heart tripping over itself, beating too fast. 

He'd been having the same dream that he's been having for a while now. Him and Mickey somewhere, one of their houses or the store or somewhere else Ian knows well. Mickey walking somewhere and Ian following, following the hunch of Mickey's shoulders and the strip of sunburn on the back of his neck that's been there all summer. He tries to catch up, catch sight of Mickey's face, but for every step he takes Mickey seem to be taking two, and Ian never had a chance. 

It goes on like this until Mickey turns a corner, into a room or behind a shelf of something, and when Ian makes the turn, nothing. Mickey's disappeared. 

Ian usually wakes up then, confused and empty-feeling, and this morning's no different. Ian lies there for a few seconds, trying to get his heart rate back down. It freaks him out and he doesn't really like to think about why, doesn't want to think about it any more than he has to. 

By the time he gets up and to the store he's late, and when he walks in Mickey looks up from a magazine he's flicking through, raising his eyebrows. Asking, "The fuck've you been?" everything a challenge with Mickey.

"Overslept." Ian slides into the chair behind the counter, grabbing a doughnut from the plastic case and gnawing off about half of it in one bite.

"Yeah, I bet," Mickey mutters, glancing up at him. "Nice fuckin hickey. What, you just go runnin back to that prehistoric fuck?"

"Had to apologize," Ian says lightly, and takes another bite off the doughnut. "Some asshole beat him up for no reason yesterday."

"So what, you apologized by fuckin him?" Mickey asks. He stares intent at the magazine, like he's still pretending either one of them thinks this is an idle conversation. "Or what, you apologize by him fuckin you?"

"Jesus." Ian presses the side of his wrist to his temple, fingers sugary with glaze. "Can you shut up for just like, a minute?"

"Knew it." Mickey looks smug but something else too, that Ian doesn't have time to work out before, "You don't even fuckin like that shit," Mickey mutters, still staring at the magazine.

Ian swallows, closes his eyes. It hits a certain place in his chest, Mickey saying that out in the light. The store's suddenly very quiet, hollow and fluorescent-bright. Ian has a headache and a sugar high and something aching in his chest, so all he says is, "Yeah, well."

Mickey glances up then, and they look at each other for a strung-out second, before they both look down again. Mickey folds the magazine and puts it back on the rack.

The rest of the morning goes on, enough people coming in to keep Ian unthinkingly busy. People looking for a quick breakfast, then women shopping with the corners of their mouths pinched down in a way that always reminds him of Fiona. Late in the afternoon it's mostly people buying cases of beer or handles of vodka, the occasional gaggle of kids who've run out of anything better to do.

One of these kids comes up to the counter, slapping down a candybar and a handful of change that clatters and skitters on the laminate. His friends — Ian recognizes them from school, couldn't tell you their names — lurk behind him. With Ian sitting down, they're just tall enough that he feels uneasy baring his neck to them, looking down to count the change.

Ian sorts it quickly, two fingers pushing the coins into groups. He hands back the extra nickel they gave him, and the ringleader says, "Fag."

Ian flips him off, one elbow propped on the counter, already turned back to the trig homework he has open in front of him. It's idle shit, he tells himself, the sort of thing kids say just to get a rise out of you. It's been happening for years, which should counteract the slip of fear in his stomach, reactionary and stupid. There's a voice in the back of his head that sounds like Lip, telling him to _just stay cool_ , so he does, staring down at the pale blue grid of the graph paper.

"Fuckin faggot," the ringleader says again.

Ian glances up, careful to keep his expression flat as he checks the store. Mickey's nowhere around, probably smoking out back or just fucked off altogether. The fear's still in his stomach, and it pisses him off, insidious and cold. _just stay cool_.

"Yeah?" Ian says to the guy tonelessly. "Wanna take that up with my girlfriend?"

The guy leans on the counter, bringing his hands down on Ian's notebook and tearing a few pages into ragged halves. "What, Mandy Milkovich? That whore?" He laughs. "I bet she'd be desperate enough to fuck a faggot. Faggot."

"You seem pretty bent out of shape about this," Ian says, leaning back all casual in his chair. "You lookin to, uh." He smirks. "Get bent?"

One of the kids snorts, and the ringleader whips around. "The fuck're you laughin at?"

"Nothin," the kid says quickly.

"What?" Ian asks. There's something bitter rising up in his throat, and he knows he's having too much fun with this even as his heart is beating quick and scared, fear still sitting cold in his stomach. There's no way this can possibly end well, all roads leading to danger. "You're a little touchy, _faggot_. Anyone ever told you that?"

The guy reaches across the counter, yanking Ian forward by his t-shirt. Ian's hip bangs against the counter, bruising. "Listen, you fuckin cocksucker—"

"Ay! The fuck's goin on in here?" Mickey calls, coming in through the storeroom door. Ian almost laughs; instead, he bares his teeth at the ringleader, feeling wild and relieved. The confidence Mickey's presence instills in him should be worrying, he thinks, the trust Ian puts in him more than Mickey would want. More than Ian, if he was thinking straight about any of this, should want to give him. Still and all: Mickey appears, and Ian feels okay again.

The guy lets him go. "Your cashier here's a fag," he says, all casual. "Or, uh." He leers at Mickey, sizing him up. "Did you already know that?"

Mickey stares at the guy for a second, and Ian can see what's going to happen before it does, Mickey nothing if not predictable. The guy gets a punch in but Mickey has him on the floor in seconds, giving him a few vicious kicks to the ribs before his friends get the guy out of there.

The door clangs shut behind them. Mickey runs a thumb along his bottom lip, looking down at the shining red streak he comes away with.

Ian rolls his eyes. "Nice, Mick."

"What the fuck else am I here for?" Mickey rubs the thumbprint of blood off on the hem of his security vest.

"Pretty sure Linda's thinking more along the lines of intimidation than assault," Ian says dryly, trying the salvage the torn-up pages of his notebook, thumbing the edges back together. The guy'd left his candy on the counter, a 100 Grand bar whose red wrapper keeps catching at the corner of Ian's eye.

Mickey shrugs easily. "Shithead called us fags, what the fuck else was I supposed to do?"

Ian doesn't have it in him to even try and respond to that; the adrenaline is dying in his veins and he feels leaden, his body remembering the two or three hours of sleep he'd gotten the night before. "Whatever."

Mickey glances at him, and when he talks Ian can see blood between his teeth. "What crawled up your ass, man?"

"Nothin." Ian stares down at his fragmented notes, lines and arrows and lopsided Greek letters. Takes a breath. He looks back up, smiling crookedly. "Nice fuckin time to take a smoke break, asshole."

"Ay, I ain't fuckin psychic," he says, "how'd I fuckin know that'd be minute these assholes come in? Anyway, you ever know me to run away from a fight?"

Ian just shakes his head, smiling still.

 

 

 

It's eight o'clock when they get off work that night and the sun's finally gone down, resilient summer brightness still clinging to the sky in a pale gray haze. They're sprawled out under the Red Line in the dead patchy grass, Mickey's switchblade glinting in the last of the light that reaches them. Thin dirt clings to their jeans, to their hands. Mickey's drinking beer and Ian's mostly watching Mickey, his own can still heavy and drawing a ring of condensation on the leg of his jeans. Mickey flicks the blade, out in, out in, little swooping motions he makes with the angle of his wrist. Ian's mesmerized by it, the flashing steel, the blood on Mickey still-split lip. 

Ian wants to do all kinds of dumb shit right now and he's not even that drunk. He wants to take Mickey's face in his hands and kiss the sure-to-be ashy taste out of his mouth. Wants to put his mouth to Mickey's jaw, whisper things soft and secret. He wants to grab Mickey's hand, knife and all, risking blood and cut palms just to twist their fingers together. 

It's things like this, Ian knows, that are really going to get him in trouble some day, that he's willing to give up so much for so little. A war to get out of the South Side. Bodily harm, just to be able to hold Mickey Milkovich's hand.

The L starts to come then, the earth stuttering underneath them. Ian presses his palms to the thin dead grass and turns to look at Mickey, his face hard-edged in the dying summer night. Ian could probably look at Mickey forever, if Mickey would let him. 

Seized by momentary recklessness, Ian says, _i think i might be in love with you_ , pitched low under the clatter of the train. Too low to hear, and still just moving his mouth around the words, Ian knows, is going too far.

Mickey turns to look at him, shouts, "What?" as the L rushes on, away from them. His voice comes out too loud, won't let Ian get away clean.

"Nothing," Ian says, fast. "Nothing." Mickey gives him that look like Ian's some dumb kid, like Mickey just doesn't understand him at all.

There's a part of him still standing in the Kash and Grab late last summer, with Mickey spitting out the exact right words to cut through his chest and Ian just standing there, stuck still, gutted in the aisles of tinned soup and candybars. Watching Mickey deny everything that had come before, watching him punch open the door and leave with the air still bitter around him. Ian had been so sure then that he wasn't coming back; sure, even, that Ian hadn't wanted him to.

But Mickey's back now, and Ian wants him more than anything, wants whatever Mickey will give him. And it seems to be more every day, Mickey's grin coming easier and his protests over their spending time together nearly drying up. Ian will think he has this figured out, think Mickey could even be trying to apologize for everything from before, but then Mickey will do something like fuck Angie Zago or give him that look, and Ian will realize that he doesn't really know anything at all. 

It pisses him off, honestly, how much Mickey can fuck with his head. That he's so desperate for Mickey to want him, to like him, that he'll stick around even when all logic says he should cut his losses, cash in his bets. But Ian's never been good with doing what he should, and when Mickey takes a long drink of his beer, crushes up the can and throws it away from him with an arc of his arm, Ian leans in toward him. He puts a hand on Mickey's chest, fingers spread, pushes him back toward the thin dusty dirt. Mickey says, "Gallagher, the fuck—" but doesn't get much further, cutting himself off with a groan when Ian grinds down against him. He bites his own lip and it bleeds again, blood welling up and Ian watches, transfixed.

Mickey's eyes are closed and his mouth open: it's gone dark for real now and his face is in shadows. Ian curls one hand in his flat-black hair, gritty now with dirt, and shoves the other down the front of Mickey's jeans.

Mickey makes a thready sound. "C'mon," he mutters, "not here."

"No one's around," Ian tells him, pushing, waiting for Mickey to push back so he can see clearly, for once, the edges of this thing with them. "No one can see."

But Mickey doesn't push back, just bucks up against Ian's hand and pulls him closer. And Ian thinks that this is what's going to really fuck him up, Mickey letting him get away with more and more until when they do get to the edge Ian won't see it coming. He'll go over, and it'll be his own fault, running blindly after Mickey and trusting dumbly that this thing will be enough, in the end, to save him.

 

 

 

It's a few days later, too long, Ian's skin itching for Mickey bad enough that he treks to the Milkovich house in the dead of the afternoon, willing to work with even the slimmest odds.

Mickey opens the door, already the beginnings of a lucky streak. "Hey," Ian says carefully. "Mandy here?"

He knows Mandy isn't here like he knows Mickey knows he knows it. He rocks back on his heels, a gambler who's spun the wheel and all there is left to do is watch how it falls out.

Mickey just stares back at him, his basic fuck-you expression. His shirt is wrenched crooked at the neck, like he'd pulled it on haphazard as he went to get the door. Ian can see a cut of his stomach he only usually gets to see if they get their shirts off, a wedge of skin between his jeans and the twisted-up hem.

He drags his eyes back to Mickey's face and knows he's been caught out, Mickey knowing and knowing Ian knows he knows, another of the endless heady circles of knowledge they've built this whole thing on.

Mickey says, "Nah. She ain't here."

"Okay."

Mickey doesn't slam the door in his face and Ian figures he still has a chance, so he says, "You got anything to drink? 's hot as fuck out here," because if you give Ian an inch he will inevitable take too much, try too hard, take not just a mile but the whole damn city.

Mickey says, "Sure."

Ian's a little stunned, thinking practicably of heatstroke or hallucination or this being all a dream. Until Mickey says, "Or what the fuck ever, stand out of the porch the whole goddamn day, asshole, see if I care," and Ian's tripping over himself to follow him inside, kicking the door closed behind them.

"There's like, beer and more fuckin beer," Mickey says, his back still to Ian, leading the way into the kitchen. Ian doesn't see any of Mickey's brothers around, much less their dad, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

"I'll take beer," Ian says, a shit-eating smile on his face that Mickey doesn't see. He doesn't turn around to look at Ian even as he wrenches open the fridge, snagging two cans. Won't look even when he tosses one to Ian, which leads to a hilariously wide throw that Ian only catches by the tips of his fingers.

"You're aim's for shit," he tells Mickey, cracking open the can, a little pissed. "Good thing you were never a pitcher. Jesus."

Mickey's eyebrows go up. "That a fuckin joke?"

It hadn't been, but Ian just raises his eyebrows, the round rim of the can against his bottom lip. He drinks, hunching his shoulder up to wipe his mouth off on his t-shirt sleeve. Mickey's looking at him now, eyes following Ian's mouth, and Ian asks, "Rest of your family home?"

"Nah," Mickeys says, "not for another hour or two." 

And that's all it takes, crashing together in the middle of the kitchen; Ian sets his beer down so hard some of it slops over his thumb and he ruches Mickey's shirt up, frantic. Their foreheads knock together, a flat _thunk_ that Ian thinks might hurt but he can't quite get at it: he and Mickey are close enough Ian can feel his breath, knows what he'd taste like.

They get their shirts off and it's Mickey who's pushing them back toward his room, tripping over shit on the floor and shoving at each other to move, move. Mickey slams the door closed behind them and before he's even turned around Ian's on the bed, dragging off his jeans and boxers, watching Mickey kick off his own and climb on top of him, the both of them moving jerky and desperate. Ian's back sticks sweaty to the blanket and he already feels feverish, waves of heat under his skin unsubsiding.

Mickey clambers over him to get at the headboard, and he's already wrapped his fingers around the scraped up wood when Ian grabs him, fingers skittering over his side. Mickey looks back, _the fuck?_ and Ian says, "No." He says, "C'mon," and peels Mickey's fingers off the headboard, pulling him down to the bed. He hasn't tried this since Mickey got back from juvie, but he's bet once today and it panned out: he's sure to be on a winning streak.

"Was kinda plannin on gettin fucked today," Mickey says, vaguely pissed off, but he lets Ian tug him down, both of them knocking knees and elbows, trying to fit on the bed Mickey's had since he was a kid.

"And I was kinda plannin on fucking you," Ian says, breathing hard with Mickey finally underneath him. "Funny how these things work out."

Mickey digs his heel into Ian's calf, not enough purchase to get a good kick in. "Yeah, well." He watches Ian squeeze lube out onto his fingers and seems to lose the thread a little. "Get a fuckin move on."

Ian runs his other hand down Mickey's leg, shoves at his knee until Mickey's got both legs bent. "Hook your ankles together behind my back," Ian mutters against the side of Mickey's neck, and Mickey does, without questioning. Ian lives for this, Mickey so turned on he abandons even token resistance and will do whatever Ian tells him, whatever Ian wants. It starts a thrill in Ian's stomach, afraid and turned on and something else he's unwilling to name. He has the strange paranoid thought that somehow Mickey'll read his mind, and that it'll scare him off forever, the immensity of it.

Ian's two fingers in now and Mickey's got his mouth open on Ian's shoulder, like he's stopping himself from making a sound. They're pressed too close together for how fucking hot it is in here, skin slick and the feverish heat still coming over Ian in waves. Mickey pulls away long enough to mumble "Do it," against Ian's jaw, "c'mon, man." Ian pulls back, gets the condom on and more lube and then he's pushing in, Mickey throwing his head back and finally making a sound, low in this throat.

Mickey claws at Ian's back as he starts fucking him in earnest, digging his nails in. Ian imagines all the little bruises he'll wake up with tomorrow, scattered over his shoulderblades like salt.

Mickey's got his eyes closed now and Ian's breathing's gone shaky, and he can feel it. "I'm—" he says, and Mickey says, "Yeah, c'mon, I wanna—" but nothing else, just digs his nails harder into Ian's skin and then he's gone, Ian's coming so hard the world whites out in front of him, and he knows he loses a few seconds because he comes back just as Mickey's hips are jerking up, out of his control, and he's coming with a grunt across his stomach.

They stay there for a second; Ian rides the aftershocks, still dizzy, not sure he could move if he wanted to. But then Mickey's saying, "Get the fuck off me, man," and shoving at his chest, and Ian pulls out, rolls onto his back. Even when Mickey drags himself to the edge of the bed it barely fits them, laying on their backs and still breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.

Mickey rolls over just enough to light a cigarette, propped up on one elbow with his back to Ian, ducking his head down to get it to light. He doesn't toss the pack to Ian, never does, instead taking a long drag and then handing it over, holding his breath in as their knuckles brush together, letting it out when Ian has the cigarette to himself. Ian wants to explain to him how obvious he is, how even his breathing patterns are knowable and how Ian's taken the time, he's learned everything he can. How Mickey comes easy to him, how Ian's become an expert and he didn't even have to try.

They finish the cigarette, which is usually just enough time for Mickey to come off his high, and Ian reaches across Mickey to stub it out in the ashtray. Still, always, he wants to know what he can get away with, so he says, "Shower," climbing over Mickey on the way to the bathroom. Mickey just grunts, which Ian thinks in somehow a victory. 

He showers fast, the water cold, and walks out of the bathroom still wet, knowing from experience that the chance of finding a clean towel in this house is next to none. Mickey's not in his room when Ian ducks back in, so he pulls on his boxers and pants, sticking and awkward on his damp skin.

Mickey's in the kitchen in a pair of jeans and nothing else, finishing Ian's beer from earlier. "Hey," Ian says. He swipes his t-shirt off the floor where Mickey'd tossed it earlier. He drags it over his face, wiping water out of his eyes before he shrugs it back on, damp patches scattered like camouflage over his chest.

He walks over to Mickey, snagging the cigarette from his hand and takes a drag. Mickey flips him off and Ian grins, but he hands it back, says, "See ya around."

"Yeah, whatever," Mickey says, but he's watching at Ian out of the corner of his eye like he does sometimes, like he'll be caught looking. 

Ian wants to say _no one else is here_ , say _i like when you look at me_. But he doesn't, and he leaves, back out into the dizzying summer heat.

 

 

 

Ian walks home, air thick and hot, the sun beating down on his neck. It's evening but it doesn't feel it, summer skewing his sense of time.

Lip's on the back steps with a blunt and a bored expression, and Ian thinks that when his brother does get famous someday this is the portrait they should paint of him, to hang up in the fancy halls or offices or whatever. Lip, in shorts and a t-shirt old enough he'd technically given it to Ian, getting high and looking so bored of the world around him, all its secrets figured out.

"Hey, man," Lip calls, as Ian cuts across the backyard. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Out." Ian comes over and Lip moves, gives enough room for Ian to sit next to him on the splintering stairs.

"Yeah," Lip scoffs. He takes a hit and hands over the blunt, familiar between their fingers. Lip holds the smoke inside his lungs just long enough for Ian to get apprehensive, and sure enough, once he finally breathes out he says easily, "Didn't come home last night."

Ian shrugs, taking a hit. The smoke is a soothing burn in his lungs, and he closes his eyes against it and the thick evening sun and Lip's questions, all of it.

"Haven't been coming home a lot," Lip says, still easy. When Ian doesn't answer, he adds, "Fiona's worried."

Ian exhales, scoffing. "Low blow, man." He hands the blunt back. "And Fiona doesn't give a fuck. It's not a big deal, which she knows."

They sit silent for a few minutes, but Ian knows that's not the end of it, knows the pattern of their conversations like he knows the layout of their house or their shared last name.

"You still seein that creep?" Lip asks, and Ian resists scoffing again.

"Which one?" Ian asks, dry. "You think everyone I fuck is a creep."

"Yeah, that's cause they are." Lip raises the blunt to his mouth. "Jimmy's dad."

Ian shrugs.

"That's where you were all night?"

Ian shrugs again.

"Jesus fuckin christ, man," Lip says, and something about that makes Ian feel awful, Lip's distain always affecting him disproportionately. He doesn't really want to talk about it, has been seeing Ned less and less and enjoying it less when he is there. "He's a fuckin senior citizen, Ian."

"He's fifty-two," Ian says disdainfully. Lip turns to him, eyebrows raised, and it occurs to Ian that he might not have proved his point as well as he'd have liked. "Whatever. Only you think it's a big fuckin deal."

"Yeah? Who else have you been telling about your, uh, torrid affair?"

Ian rolls his eyes, disbelieving of the sheer melodrama that Lip's capable of. "Mandy, for one."

"Yeah, well, Mandy's a slut," Lip says, handing over the weed.

"Really, man?" Ian asks. "You're the one practically living with her. Also, shut the fuck up, she's my best friend."

"Thought I was your best friend."

"Yeah, and maybe you still would be, if you weren't such a dick all the time."

They sit smoking in silence, air gone tense and stale around them. Ian wants to take it back, say _of course_ and _never gonna change_ , but he's too fucking proud, keeps his mouth shut. Lip somehow draws out the best and the worst in him, always has, and Ian's never known how to really deal with that.

"So how's Mickey?" Lip asks after a while, the perfect split of reconciliatory and taunting, continuing the conversation without ceding ground. Ian knows all his tricks.

"Fine. Good."

"Not back in juvie yet?"

"Ha ha." Ian takes a final hit and stubs the roach out on the porch step. "He's turning eighteen in a few weeks, anyway. Gonna be a lot shittier next time he goes in."

Lip _hmm_ s. "You have the worst taste in guys, man, swear to god."

"Already noted." Ian looks down at his gym shoes, toeing at a tear in the side the length of his thumbnail. "Mickey's not bad, though," he says, voice lower. "Really." He's not sure why he says it, except he still wants Lip to understand, understand him like he always has.

Lip's looking at him but Ian won't look back. Lip glances out at the yard, scratching a hand through his hair. "Just don't fall for him or anything, okay?"

Ian smiles, a little sad and a little bitter, knowing he's the punchline of this particular joke. _too late_ , he wants to say, _been too late for a while_. But all he does say is, "Yeah, okay."

Lip scuffs a hand over the back of Ian's head, shoving his head down and Ian laughs for real this time, ducking out of his reach. "Asshole."

"Dipshit." Lip claps a hand on his shoulder and leaves it there, steady.

 

 

 

It's after work, the late shift plus inventory, coming up on ten o'clock. Mickey's walking next to him, squinting down at the ground, the back of his neck bared to Ian. He'd stayed late even though he didn't have to, and neither of them had said a word about it: he hadn't helped, really, drinking beers he'd snagged from the cooler and annoying Ian half to death, but it'd been — good. Ian's still a little high off it, a little unsure. He watches Mickey out of the corner of his eye, his hair shorter this summer and spiked up, constant sheen of sweat and dirt on his face. He looks good, Ian thinks, his edges softened out in the darkness.

"The chain's still dumb," Ian tells him, a few blocks from the store, reopening an argument. The silver catches the light when they pass the odd working streetlight: it is dumb, but Ian doesn't give a shit, except that Mickey gets this pissy look on his face when Ian brings it up that Ian just loves.

"Your face's still fuckin dumb," Mickey mutters back to him, lighting a cigarette with his fingers curling softly around the flame. He sucks down the first drag, cheeks hollowing out: Ian's staring at him and only half-realizing it.

Mickey glances at him, raising his eyebrows. "Don't even think about it, man."

"Wasn't thinkin about anything," Ian says, turning to face front again, face smoothed out innocent.

Mickey scoffs, but not too mean. It's a game they play that Ian only half knows the rules to, same as everything between them: only one of them can want this at a time. One of them running, the other chasing. Terrified of what could happen if they started running toward each other, the kind of damage that could cause.

Ian wants to find out, though, wants to see. He's never had much of a self-preservation instinct and when it comes to Mickey he has none at all. He wants to push and push until Mickey proves something, pushes back. He wants proof that he isn't going to fall off this cliff alone.

Ian reaches for Mickey's cigarette and Mickey bats his hand away, so Ian shoves his palm over the back of Mickey's head and Mickey says "Hey!" in this like, melodramatically indignant voice. Then Mickey's reaching over to dead-arm him and Ian's dancing away, and Ian's grinning and Mickey's grinning back like his lighter flame in the dark, bright and temporary.

They settle back down and walk the rest of the way home, close enough together that their arms keep brushing, elbows knocking. Like copper coils lighting up under Ian's skin. He feels paid off, something he did tonight gone right. Mickey's still grinning sort of idly to himself around the cigarette, head ducked down, and Ian thinks, in moments like this, that this is enough. That he could live, just like this. 

They make their way through the still warm night like a balancing act, touching just enough, staying just far enough away. Mickey smiling at least for a little while, Ian feeling enough, for once. Solid. Ian steps over cracks in the sidewalk, darting glances to Mickey's cigarette-beaconed face, and he thinks it again, bright and sure. _just like this_. 

 

THE END


End file.
